End in Tears (7 page)

Warning of trouble ahead came when Dora stood aside and refused with a shake of her head to kiss her daughter. He kissed her. Why not? It wasn't his baby. He wasn't going to have to fight for it, argue over it, threaten a Judgment of Solomon division of it. Sylvia was very nervous, he could tell. If Dora was going to be difficult she could be the one to drive them home and he would have a glass of wine.

They went to sit by the wide-open French windows, Dora adamantly refusing to go outside on account of the mosquitoes. Swarms of them had gathered in the shady spots and begun their strange dance. They talked about Sylvia's mother's violent reaction to mosquito bites and her and her father's imperviousness. They talked about her sleeping sons and whether or not they would be going away on holiday. And then, because she could stand it no longer, Sylvia said, “Well, you may as well tell me what you think about me having a baby for Naomi.”

“What I think will make no difference,” said Wexford.

“Perhaps not, but I'd like to know what it is. Okay, it's not your business, but I can't bear this terribly important thing not even mentioned.”

Wexford waited a few seconds. “You're wrong there. If you're part of a family what you do is bound to some extent to be the business of the others.”

“So what do you think? That I'm crazy, no doubt.”

“I think you will make yourself very unhappy.”

“So do I,” said Dora in a voice very unlike her usual low and gentle tones, “and probably the boys too. All this stuff that happens now, IVF and cloning and women of sixty having babies, it's all wrong. It leads to misery and confusion.”

“I thought you might at least be pleased Neil's the father. I don't think Dad cares, but I know you don't approve of me having…well, relationships with people.”

“No, I don't. Not while you have children living with you. And if you want to know, I don't approve of you. Not at present, I don't.”

Wexford asked her when the baby was due.

“December the fifth.”

“Before you started this,” said Dora bitterly, “you might have thought it wasn't only your child you'd be giving away but our grandchild.”

“Look at it like this.” Sylvia's voice rose. “If I wasn't going to hand it over to Neil and Naomi, I wouldn't be having it at all. I've got a new job. I wouldn't have the time to look after a baby. You have to think of it as already theirs. I do.”

Wexford looked at her in an assessing way, without sympathy. “I wish I believed you. You're not tough enough for this, Sylvia. Someone being ‘in denial' is a favorite phrase of yours. Well, I think you're in denial. You're hiding your true feelings under a bunch of social-worker gobbledygook.”

He saw the tears come into her eyes and overflow. Not he but her mother said in a tone he had never before heard from her, “All right, that's better, cry. That's how you really feel, like having a good cry. Have a cry for the lot of us. In case you don't know it, you're wrecking this family.”

He said nothing, but he took his wife's hand and held it. “If you're ready we'll go home.”

Wexford kissed his daughter. Dora didn't kiss her. Her mother standing there, just standing, with her car keys in her hand, Sylvia turned her tearful face away. Wexford felt an angry longing to take her in his arms and hug her, but he did nothing, only following Dora out of the house and thinking of a young mother, half Sylvia's age, who had died horribly and left her small boy motherless.

CHAPTER 8

E
ven seeing the child this morning brought Wexford such distress that he had to turn his attention immediately to George Marshalson. He wanted the child not to be there, out on the grass on a blanket, watched over by his indifferent stepgrandmother. He wanted not to be exposed to the sight of innocence and obliviousness to what had happened, in case he inadvertently looked out of that window again. For sooner or later Brand must be told, the true explanation must be given to him of why his mother was no longer there and never coming back.

Burden, smart casual in linen trousers and jacket of fine striped cotton, had asked Marshalson about the events of June
24
. “You didn't mention the accident in which Amber was involved.”

“Is it important?” His surprise seemed genuine. Wexford waited a few seconds, allowing him to think a little. Or not think, it appeared. “Is there something I should be seeing here and don't?”

“Mr. Marshalson, the concrete block which was dropped from the bridge hit the car in front of Amber's, a
gray
Honda as against a
silver
one, the two of them almost identical at dusk. I don't wish to cause you more pain than you're already suffering, but doesn't this suggest to you that this was an earlier attempt on her life?”

“My God. Oh, my God.” Marshalson seemed genuinely shocked and astonished.

“Yes, it's not pleasant to think of, but I'm quite sure that what I've told you is the case. Was it Amber's own car?”

In a dazed tone, Marshalson said slowly, “I gave it to her for her seventeenth birthday. That was before the child was born. Then, after that”—his voice faltered—“she took lessons, passed her test…Are you
sure
?”

“Yes, Mr. Marshalson, I'm almost positive. Whoever aimed that concrete block meant to hit Amber's car but hit Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose's in error. Mrs. Ambrose died as a result. One thing all this shows us is that your daughter's murderer knew her and purposely set out with her death in view. I'm sorry to put it in these crude terms, but at the same time I don't want to leave you in ignorance.”

“No, no. Thank you. It's a great shock, though, a great shock. Why should anyone make an enemy of Amber? She was only a young girl. She'd never harmed anyone, she was innocent.” His voice wavered and cracked. “What's she supposed to have done? Nothing, I'm sure, it must be nothing.”

“We don't know, Mr. Marshalson,” said Burden. “You can be sure, though, that your daughter was in no way to blame.” He glanced at Wexford. “There is one other thing.”

“Amber was carrying a thousand pounds in notes in the pocket of her jacket,” said Wexford.

Not even a great actor with years of stage experience could have produced such incredulity. First Marshalson said, “Are you certain of that?” And when they assured him they were, “I am absolutely dumbfounded. Amber hadn't any money except for the allowance—the very small allowance, I must say—I was able to give her. She couldn't even have saved up that sum, and she wasn't a saver. Where did it come from?”

“Again I have to say we don't know.”

“Why didn't…I mean, why didn't the person who did this take it?” It was plain that he shied away from such words as “killer” or “murderer.” “Surely they must have done what they did for the money?”

“But they didn't take it, Mr. Marshalson,” Wexford said gently. “Did Amber have a bank account?”

“Yes, she did, but there was never anything much in it.”

“One more thing, Mr Marshalson,” said Burden, “and then we'll leave you in peace. Did Amber inherit anything when she became eighteen?”

Again his incredulity seemed genuine. “Amber, poor child? No, nothing.” In spite of his gift of a car, he seemed to need to justify the small allowance he gave his daughter. “I'm not a rich man, Chief Inspector. I'll admit the company hasn't been doing well lately. My wife has money, but that is hers.”

In the garden the little boy was awake. As children his age often do, he awoke with a cry that sounded more frustrated or petulant than distressed. The woman he called Di got up from her chair and lifted him in her arms—as someone might lift a shopping bag too heavy for its handles, Wexford thought. When they came close to the window on their way to some rear door he heard Brand say in wistful tones, “Mama, Mama.”

As time passed he would come to accept Diana as his mother. No doubt the Social Services would intervene, but it was almost beyond doubt that Brand would remain with his grandfather and a stepgrandmother young and vigorous enough to have charge of his upbringing, one who would do her duty, be an efficient carer, see that he ate healthily and watched only a modicum of television. Many a natural mother does less, he thought.

She, he found, seemed to have no more idea of where the thousand pounds came from than her husband had. Brand now in a high chair, sucking orange juice out of a bottle and eating a sliced banana, Diana Marshalson showed nearly the same degree of surprise.

“What became of the car Amber was driving when the concrete block was dropped from the bridge in June?”

“It was a write-off.”

“I see. Mrs. Marshalson, I should like to have a look at Amber's bedroom. There's no need for a thorough search as there would be if this were a case of a missing person, but I should like to cast my eye over it. Inspector Burden will come with me.”

Apart from the bed that was neatly made, everything in the room was in chaos, exactly the way you would expect to find the bedroom of a teenage girl whose motherhood seemed extraneous and no natural part of her character. Clothes lay about. The two chairs were covered, enveloped, lost, in the piles of clothes and more hung from cupboard door handles on cleaners' wire hangers. When Wexford opened one of these doors it was hard to see how they could have been put away, so crammed was the interior with miniskirts, long skirts, jeans, trousers, tops, jackets, dresses, and coats. The number of garments was matched by the quantity of cosmetics that stood about on every available surface. One drawer in the dresser refused to close, it was so stuffed full with bottles and jars, makeup brushes and tissues. From another trailed the end of a pink chiffon scarf and one leg of a pair of fishnet tights.

“Imagine the mayhem when Brand came in here,” said Wexford.

Burden shrugged. “If he ever did. The child doesn't seem to have figured large in her life.”

“Well, we don't know that yet. Maybe we don't need to.” Wexford meant, let it stay that way so that I don't have to wake up in the night and worry about it. Sylvia's predicament is bad enough to be going on with. Let me have an ostrich side to my life.

Burden was opening those drawers, one after another. No order was to be found anywhere. One, scattered with drifts of a white substance Burden said was talcum powder, also held screwed-up used tissues, balls of cotton wool, and half-used jars of cosmetics. Others were crammed with a heterogeneous mix of things to wear, things to read, cuttings (or, rather, tearings) from magazines, ballpoint pens, single socks, sunglasses, curling tongs, a hairdryer, and several hairbrushes and combs. Mixed up with them was a passport. Opening it, he looked first at Amber's photograph, for once a passport photograph that showed its subject as beautiful, then at an inside page on which were stamps for entry to Thailand on December
7
and exit on December
21
of the previous year. He passed it to Wexford and turned his attention to those of the garments that had pockets, and after a search that revealed two squashed cigarettes, several coins of small denomination, more used tissues, and another condom, pulled out with something like triumph an envelope stuffed full of notes.

“I'll count them,” he said, “but there's at least another thousand there, don't you think?”

“Probably. I'm mystified. Did she steal it or earn it?”

“If she earned it,” said Burden, pulling a long face, “she must have been on the game. There's no other way she could have got that much.”

“For such a puritan,” said Wexford, “your mind steams along lurid channels.”

 

In Kingsmarkham High Street the digital clock outside the Kingsbrook Shopping Centre showed the time as eleven-fifteen and the temperature at thirty-three degrees Celsius.

“That's ninety degreees to you,” said Burden kindly.

“All right, I can work it out. I taught my daughters how to do it. It's just that the mental arithmetic takes time.”

A good-looking young man with longish fair hair was leaning against the boot of a car in the police station parking area. He had positioned his Audi in the bay marked
RESERVED FOR
THE CHIEF CONSTABLE.
Wexford went over to him and, meeting his eyes, dark blue with very clear whites, said sharply, “What can I do for you?”

“It's really what I can do for you. Or can't do, come to that.” A long brown hand was extended. “Daniel Hilland. How do you do?”

There is really no answer to this and Wexford made none. Nor did he shake hands. “You can't leave your car there. Whatever they do out there, in here we clamp.”

“I thought you wanted to see me. Can't we go inside?”

“Not leaving your car there, we can't. It won't take long and then you can remove it. You're aware of what has happened to your former girlfriend?”

Hilland nodded. “Of course.”

“I believe you've been on holiday in Finland?”

Another nod.

“I'd like to see your passport, Mr. Hilland, and any other documentation you may have to prove you were there at the relevant time.”

Hilland stared. “What do you mean by documentation?”

“You might, for instance, have the receipt for your air fare, the bit that looks almost identical to your ticket but isn't valid for transport.”

Feeling the heat, Hilland looked peevishly at him and then at Burden. “No one keeps those things.”

“It's unwise not to. Perhaps you've kept your receipted hotel bill?”

“I might have done if I'd stayed in a hotel. We were camping. Look, you can't seriously think I had anything to do with Amber's murder. That's surreal. I mean, why would I?”

“It's not the business of the law to look for motives, Mr. Hilland. But at the moment we are just trying to eliminate people from our inquiries. It's not possible for me to exclude you if you can't show me any evidence that you were where you say you were. No doubt one of the friends you were with can tell me.”

“I suppose I'll have to ask them.” Hilland spoke in an even more ungracious tone than he had up till then. “It's a bore, but I suppose they will. They don't like this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing would that be?”

“Oh, well, the police and murder and suspects and all that sort of thing, especially when everyone knows it's some psychopath who's addicted to porn on the Web that goes for these girls.”

Wexford didn't have to remind himself that among “these girls” was the mother of Hilland's child. He had seldom if ever met a more objectionable young man. A yob from one of the estates, until now categorized at Kingsmarkham police station as “lowlife,” was preferable. “Right,” he said. “I'd like the name and home address of one of these friends of yours and I'd like it now.”

Surprised by Wexford's change of tone, Hilland looked sulky, but he gave the Chief Inspector two names, one with an address in Wales, the other nearer home in Lewes.

“When her body was found, a thousand pounds was in her jacket pocket. Have you any idea how she came by such a large sum?”

Hilland managed to look as if it wasn't a large sum to him by raising his eyebrows and setting his head on one side. “No idea. I never saw her, you know. We split up before the child was born. Not that there was ever much to split.”

Reminding himself to keep his temper at all costs, Wexford tried asking why she needed money, though he knew very well that need is not a motive relevant to stealing or any other ways, allowed or illicit, of acquiring it.

“She was going to live in my dad's flat,” Hilland said. “She'd need something to live
on.
It'd be different from home with her dad and what's-her-name?—Diana. Amber hadn't anything of her own. And before you ask, with censoriousness in every syllable, no, I don't give her anything. I haven't anything to give. I'm a student, okay?”

“Right. That's all,” said Wexford shortly, glad that the man was feeling the heat, sweat pouring down his face and soaking his armpits. “I'd like you to bring your passport and whatever other documentation you have back here tomorrow morning. You can go now and please don't park your car in here again.”